


On Such a Full Sea

by Verecunda



Category: Julius Caesar - Shakespeare, SHAKESPEARE William - Works
Genre: AU, Age of Sail, M/M, Past Relationship(s), Slash, The Ship Is A Metaphor, UST
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-31
Updated: 2013-05-31
Packaged: 2017-12-13 12:25:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/824293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Verecunda/pseuds/Verecunda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Age of Sail AU. In which Caesar is the too-ambitious commodore, Brutus is the honourable but conflicted first lieutenant, Cassius is the shifty purser, and there is one word hanging unsaid in the air.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On Such a Full Sea

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Shakespeare and history have this one covered.
> 
> Warnings: Mostly my dodgy grasp of naval jargon and the mechanics of sailing; heavy-handed metaphor; some very mild suggestiveness.
> 
> A/N: Because of reasons. Most of those reasons being that the Age of Sail is awesome, and everything should have an Age of Sail AU. EVERYTHING. I’ve got some a wee bit of self-indulgent waffle re: AOS-ifying Julius Caesar, and making excuses for some historical licence and borrowed quotes, but I’ve put that at the end to spare you.

Cassius came on deck just after seven bells in the first watch. The final strains had shivered away, and all that remained was the dead silence of night in the middle of the ocean, the only sounds the whisper of water along the side of the ship, and the low, insinuating song of the wind in the rigging. The ship was sailing under courses and topsails: above him, they swelled vast and black against the dark sky, stifling the stars.

To the untrained eye, it may seem that with the sea so calm and the wind steady just abaft the beam, the ship was making brave progress, slipping through the darkness as easily as a ghost. But Cassius had known HMS _Roma Aeterna_ man and boy, and he could feel the strain the speed put on her old timbers, the sluggishness of her pitch, the indefinable discord in the myriad rhythms of her hull. He hardly needed Mr. Casca’s wild stories of _Flying Dutchmen_ and ghosts in the forward magazine to know that things aboard the _Roma_ were not as they should be.

He clambered up the last few steps of the ladder and out of the hatchway, casting about until he found the object of his search. The log had evidently been heaved, and the quartermaster and a midshipman were on the quarterdeck, reporting to the first lieutenant.

At the sight of him, a faint, involuntary smile reached Cassius’ lips. Even muffled in a boat-cloak, Brutus was the very ideal of an officer of His Majesty’s Royal Navy, his whole bearing straight and imposing, his uniform without so much as a button out of place, his hat turned athwartships. His features, stark in the glow from the binnacle lantern, were even, classical, and his expression was one of utmost absorption as he marked the ship’s speed on the log board. Duty, honour, the immemorial custom of the service: that was the Royal Navy that Marcus Brutus stood for. Where all captains were just, and all hands happy, and - Cassius’ smile gave a slight, bitter twist - where pursers were honest.

The midshipman and the quartermaster touched their hats and drifted back to their stations, and he decided to make himself known.

“Good evening, Mr. Brutus,” he called, his voice sounding almost cacophonously loud in the silence beneath the sails, touching his hat to him with a smile as he came to stand before him.

The careful lack of expression on Brutus’ face when he turned to him was not what Cassius wished to see at all, but it was gone in the next second as Brutus favoured him with a smile. “Mr. Cassius.”

Silence again. He glanced at the log board, at the records entered in Brutus’ steady hand. Seven knots at the beginning of the watch, moving up to eight, and now entered at nine. Dear God, _nine_. In her prime, even in his days as a midshipman, the _Roma_ could have made nine knots with hardly an effort, even eleven when she had an ideal wind. But despite her distinguished record, and the great affection she was held in by officers and common seamen alike, she was not the ship she had once been. 

Not that Caesar was concerned with that. What concerned him was the prestige of commanding such a venerable old man o’ war. All the same, he had been sure to pretty her up before taking her to sea. It would never do for the great Captain Julius Caesar - Commodore Caesar now - to be seen hoisting his pendant in some worn-out tub. But even a clean bottom and a fresh coat of paint could not disguise the fact that half her timbers were rotten, nor that she was iron-sick from stem to stern. A shadow of her former self, where once she had been a prime sailer, now she laboured slavishly under sail, submitting herself to Caesar’s demands with the resignation of an elderly whore.

Brutus still made no effort to engage him in conversation, and he realised it was on his head.

“If you have no objection, Brutus, I thought I might share the rest of the watch with you.” He met Brutus’ gaze, deliberately. “You are not to be found in the wardroom.”

Brutus’ smile was tolerant. “I am officer of the watch, Cassius.”

Cassius narrowed his eyes, wondering, not for the first time in his life, whether Brutus was being purposely obtuse. “Brutus...” He trailed away, suddenly unsure of his footing in this conversation. Nevertheless, he rallied himself and tried again, more uncertainly: “Brutus, what is amiss?”

Brutus frowned. “Amiss? Why, Cassius, nothing is amiss.”

Cassius opened his mouth to press the matter, but checked himself, his gaze sliding over to where, just a few paces away, the helmsmen manned the wheel, staring stoically ahead as if completely unaware of them. Cassius, however, was only too aware of _them_ ; their presence rasped against his nerves like a holystone. He had no inclination to make them party to this conversation, and so he risked another step closer to Brutus, lowering his voice.

“You have hardly spoken five words to me since we left Portsmouth.”

He winced: he hadn’t meant the words to sound so accusatory, but even he heard the petulance in his voice.

For a second, Brutus’ face was inscrutable, but then he gave a weary smile. “My apologies if I have seemed untoward, Cassius. I–” he exhaled heavily – “I have simply found myself... preoccupied with certain things lately.” Then his expression cleared, and he smiled more genuinely. “But if it has made me appear unsociable, then I beg your pardon. Rest assured, Cassius, it is my own mood that’s at fault, and nothing on your part.”

Brutus’ smile raised a thin one of Cassius’ own, but despite that, he could sense the shadow hanging over Brutus, and he wondered what it was that had been weighing with him. Did he dare hope–?

“Walk with me a while, Brutus.”

Brutus said nothing, and for one moment Cassius feared he would refuse, but after a quick check of the compass and the sails to satisfy himself that all was well, he nodded and allowed Cassius to lay a hand on his arm and guide him away. It happened so easily that Cassius found himself assailed by a memory from a long-buried past. When Brutus would put his hand in his, so trustingly, and let Cassius lead him down to the relative seclusion of the cable tiers. Those days were long gone now, but for an instant, Cassius’ blood stirred in much the same way as it had then.

There was precious little room to speak in confidence in a ship, even in a seventy-four like the _Roma_ , and certainly not on the quarterdeck, so Cassius moved them both forward. Below them, from one of the open gun-ports on the lower deck, two voices floated up, muted but clearly distinguishable. It would seem that the captain of marines was entertaining in his cabin. They heard Antony’s voice - drunk as Davy’s sow - and a high, trilling laugh recognisable as belonging to the master’s wife. Cassius raised an eyebrow, but Brutus simply frowned, a hint of puritanical disapproval rising in his face, before it disappeared beneath his outward show of calm.

As they made their way forward along the starboard gangway, Brutus stopped and gently shook awake the midshipman who was dozing in the lee of one of the boats. “Lucius. Wake up, Lucius. Pass the word for Mr. Decius, and let him know that the watch is due to change soon.”

The youngster groaned, most unwilling to wake up, but gradually uncurled himself and got to his feet. A yawn swallowed his rote mumble of, “Aye aye, sir,” as he pulled his hat on over his tousled hair and shambled - still mostly asleep - to the after hatchway.

As they continued forward, those members of the watch who were actually awake pressing a knuckle to their foreheads as they passed, Cassius turned to Brutus.

“You know that I hold you in the highest esteem, Brutus. As every Roman does. You must know that I, and every man-jack aboard this ship would follow you around the Horn in a jolly-boat if you only gave the word.”

Brutus gave one of his rare chuckles. “What manner of purser’s trick is this, Cassius?”

Cassius shook his head. “No trick. Come.”

They crossed the fo’c’sle to the larboard rail. The hands stationed there edged deferentially away, but otherwise took no particular notice of them: two officers walking the deck together was hardly cause for comment. Now they had some room to talk without fear of being overheard. Cassius leaned against the nearest gun as Brutus took his place at the rail, wrapping his hand around one of the shrouds as he stared out into the darkness, though in truth his attention had turned inward. Cassius knew, from long, long acquaintance, that once Brutus withdrew into himself there was little chance for anyone else to gain entry.

For some time, Brutus said nothing. Then, at last, he said in a low voice, “I am concerned about Caesar.”

Cassius looked up sharply. “You are?”

He had never expected Brutus to simply say it aloud, certainly not to him. Brutus was not one to speak ill of another man, and especially not Caesar. It was no secret that even before he had taken the young gentleman under his wing, Caesar had been the father that Brutus had never known, and he owed much of his advancement to Caesar’s interest in him. But despite his love for Caesar, he was not Caesar’s creature. He had too much of the old Brutus blood in his veins. For the first time since embarking on this conversation, Cassius felt sure he was on the right tack.

Glancing about to ensure that there was still no chance of them being overheard, he leaned closer and whispered, “Then should I understand that you have certain reservations about the Admiralty’s decision to appoint him to this command?”

Brutus’ gaze drifted away out to sea once again, his brow furrowed, and almost more to himself than to Cassius, he murmured, “Reservations... yes. God help me, I have a few of those.” He looked down, lost again in his own mind. But when he turned back to Cassius, his gaze was direct, searching, very much in the here and now. “But what is it you wish to say to me so urgently? I trust you have some honourable motive for engaging me in confidence.”

Said without the merest trace of irony. Cassius almost smiled. There was no man quite like Marcus Brutus. But his amusement was stifled by the awareness that, for the first time since he had come on deck, here it was: a single word, one that had no business being uttered in a British ship. He could feel it hanging in the air, elusive but still dangerous.

“I know no man values the good of the service more than you do, Brutus. Well, what I want to say is to that end.”

Something passed across Brutus’ face, some flicker of interest, and he knew that Brutus was listening.

“You know there is no love lost between Caesar and myself, I make no pretence otherwise. But I do not talk of myself now. You say you have reservations about his promotion to commodore. I’m sure the Lords of the Admiralty, in their infinite wisdom, had good cause to appoint him, but I am also sure I’m not alone in thinking that there were other men who could have filled the post.”

Brutus frowned deeply, and from what seemed an instinctive desire to defend his friend, said, “Caesar has a record of meritorious conduct–”

“Meritorious?” Cassius echoed bitterly. “Aye, he’s a capital seaman, to be sure, but for every victory he has won fairly, there have been two more actions where he has snatched recognition away from other men. My God, Brutus, how many years have you sailed with him? You know better than any of us what he is like - glorious victory or Westminster Abbey - and to hell with those who would try to keep him from it. You _know_ , Brutus.”

Now he was in danger of raising his voice. He must control himself, or he would be putting a rope around both their necks.

“And the _Roma_. How often is she in need of repair? But Caesar does not care about that. All he sees is a famous ship for him to hoist his pendant in, regardless of her condition, and he will drive her until she founders, all in his endless pursuit of glory.”

He saw Brutus’ hand tighten around the shroud as his words struck home. For all the _Roma_ ’s prestige, there were few who loved her more than Brutus. Indeed, aside from the brief period when he had sailed under his uncle, Admiral Cato, he had hardly been out of her. To him she was not simply an aging hulk, or a famous name: she was his heart. No man believed in the _Roma Aeterna_ more than him. But surely even Brutus had to see that she could not withstand the strain that Caesar was putting on her.

Barely giving Brutus a chance to breathe, he forged on: “You know as well as I that he has half the Admiralty under his thumb. He has just to extend his hand and they will give him anything he demands. Now he has command of the _Roma_ , _and_ the whole squadron. Master under God of the whole miserable lot of us, with the power of life - and death - right there in his hand.”

Brutus’ head turned sharply. Cassius knew that he had taken his meaning, that he was now thinking of last week’s court martial. Flavius and Marullus, two lieutenants of the _Tribune_ , tried for making certain “utterances”, and, despite the lack of any real evidence or credible witnesses, both strung up from the yardarm before the entire squadron. Caesar, naturally, had presided over the whole affair. Even the most guileless mind could not fail to wonder how much he might have influenced the verdict. Even Brutus could not fail to be troubled. 

“And when this commission is over, Brutus, what then? You can be damned sure that the Admiralty will turn a blind eye his _irregularities_ , and they will roll over to grant him anything else he wants. And do you really think, after this taste of the glories of flag rank, that he will be content to return to his place on the Navy List and wait meekly in line for promotion? No, he will leap over the heads of every senior captain and straight into an admiral’s post, you mark my words. And next thing we know, he will be First bloody Lord of the Admiralty.”

Even as he said it, he could feel the scenario - a mere hypothesis in his head until now - coalescing into a hard, dreadful certainty. It loomed upon him like a lee shore, and he could feel his blood rising as every fibre of his being rebelled against it. He realised he was breathing hard, his heart fairly pounding against his ribs.

“I’ll tell you, this, Brutus. It is only our complacency that has put him where he is now. _Dear God_ ,” he hissed, his knee giving a violent jerk which cast it right off the gun carriage. “What does it say for the service when its greatest man is _Caesar_? In years to come, it won’t be His Majesty’s Navy they talk about; it will be _Caesar’s_ Navy. A man like that! By God, there was a Brutus once who would have seen a bloody _Frenchman_ sit in the Admiralty before he ever suffered a man like Caesar to sit there.”

It was an underhanded blow, but from the way that Brutus’ eyes widened, the muscles in his throat going taut, Cassius knew that he had struck a nerve. Brutus belonged to an old naval family, who had been breeding sea officers even before Drake’s time, and their name was revered in the annals of naval history. Chief amongst those illustrious ancestors was Admiral Lucius Brutus, who had exposed the corruption and tyranny of the hated Lord Tarquin, leading to his expulsion, not only from the Admiralty, but also from the House of Lords. His portrait hung in Brutus’ house to this day; Cassius remembered it well from the summers he had spent there as a boy, glowering down on his descendants to remind of them of their legacy.

The seconds stretched out, with nothing but the whine of the breeze in the rigging, and the rush of the sea. Brutus glanced briefly aft, then out to sea once more, his face unnaturally still in the instant before he turned back to Cassius. When at last he spoke, each word seemed to cost him every ounce of his resolution.

“I do not doubt your friendship, Cassius, or your esteem. But I must have time to think on what you have said. You know as well as I what we are speaking of here.”

The look he gave Cassius was full of significance, and Cassius’ pulse hitched. The word hung in the air, unspoken yet tangible, enfolding them together in complicity.

“Of course, of course,” said Cassius eagerly, and in an instant of unguarded emotion, gave a lurch toward him. “Brutus–”

“Cassius.” Brutus’ voice cut sharply through the small space between them, stopping him dead. Now Brutus looked strained, his fingers coming up to press against his temple. His tone was more urgent as he went on, “Now, for God’s sake, belay that sort of talk.” He gave a pointed glance about them, where the hands, although taking no particular notice of them, were still very much in evidence; then he touched Cassius’ shoulder, and in a voice that was calmer, but no less intense, said, “All I will say just now, old friend, is that I would rather spend the rest of my life on shore than serve in a navy like Tarquin’s.”

Cassius smiled; his hand came up to grasp Brutus’. “I am glad to hear you speak so, Brutus, truly.”

For a moment then, all pretence was stripped away, and what was left between them was an understanding so complete, so deep, that Cassius felt it almost as an ache in his bones. It was something he had not felt for far too long, not since their time together as midshipmen. His mind was thrown back all those years, to those long days spent side by side as they learned the ropes in this very ship, the intricacies of sailing and navigation, the qualities of command. Long nights spent swinging side by side in the midshipmen’s berth, or sharing the lonely hours of the graveyard watch, or cheering each other when homesickness caught up with them. Then later, to that first furtive kiss between the guns, and all those snatched moments in whichever dark corner of the ship they could find. Inseparable, uninhibited. Before the years, with all their relentless dictates of duty and propriety, had come between.

Now he searched Brutus’ face, hungrily, willing him to give a sign that he remembered too, that he also felt this ache. For a moment, he thought he saw something stir in Brutus’ eyes, but perhaps it was only wishful thinking on his part, for when he looked again, he saw nothing.

The thud of footsteps upon the deck had him starting away from Brutus like a guilty thing, but it was only the quartermaster, come to ring the bell. Its desolate voice chimed out, shattering the heavy cover of silence, drawing them out of their fragile circle of confidence back into the communal world of the ship.

“Eight bells,” Brutus murmured, the night around them suddenly filled with life as the watch changed: the dull thunder from below as the starboard watch was turned out of bed. For several minutes the deck was a scene of orderly chaos as hammocks were stowed in the netting and the larbowlines were relieved, the dark shapes of men exhanging places on deck, or sliding silently up and down the rigging.

“I must go now,” said Brutus. “Are you coming?”

Cassius shook his head. “I think I will stay on deck for a while, take the air.”

“Then I will see you tomorrow, Cassius.” A pause. “We can talk again then. Until then, goodnight.”

“Goodnight.” He watched as Brutus turned to make his way aft, but before he had gone more than a few steps, said, “The good of the service, Brutus, think of that.”

Brutus stopped, half turned back. But then he nodded, once, and walked away. Cassius watched him until he was gone, then stood at the rail, staring down at the foam that sheared along the _Roma_ ’s side, glowing palely in the darkness.

Truly, there was no man in the navy more honourable than Marcus Brutus. Poor man, he thought grimly, to have a friend like him, made of far less exalted stuff. Caesar, too, had recognised the difference in them from the first. For all he loved Brutus, he had never liked Cassius. Worried, perhaps, that such a creature would be a poor influence on his young protégé. Suspicion had in time turned to outright malice, and in the end, he had stifled Cassius’ career. Disrated, all chance of a lieutenant’s commission lost. In the end, a purser’s warrant had been his only hope of remaining in the navy, whilst he watched Caesar raise Brutus ever higher out of his reach.

Ironic, then, that his worst fear should prove true, that Cassius was indeed moulding his favourite against him. But Brutus was no glory-seeker. He lived for the good of the service, and for the welfare of the men. For all his reservations about Caesar’s command, for all Cassius’ exhortations, he would do nothing if he did not believe the crew supported him.

And therein lay Cassius’ problem. Caesar was the worst thing that had ever happened to the navy, yet the _Roma_ was hardly a shot-rolling ship. As long as Caesar continued to provide them with prize money and grant them extra grog rations, the hands continued to love him, as blindly stupid as the sheep in the pen. Three cheers for Cap’n Caesar, indeed. But they also had a profound respect for their first lieutenant. They all knew he held their interests to heart. It would be easy enough to bend their minds against Caesar if they saw Brutus stand against him. The challenge lay in conceiving of some way to convince Brutus that this was what the Romans wanted.

Gradually, a plan formed in his mind. Brutus was no stranger to petitions, begging him to speak to Caesar on behalf on the crew over some matter or another. If certain discreet letters were to end up in Brutus’ cabin, surely he must act. It was deception, plain and simple, but it must be done. 

After all, what was one more deception compared with what he had already drawn Brutus into? The thing that made all right-thinking men’s blood run cold. Worse than surrender, worse than death. The one thing that signalled the end of order, the end of discipline, the end of trust - the end of all that held the service together. And yet it was it was the one thing that could save the _Roma_ from Caesar. Brutus was too honourable to set such a thing in motion himself; that was up to Cassius. If that made him a man with no honour, then so be it. After all, he thought grimly, only the worst sort of villain would ever think of rousing a friend to mutiny.

**Author's Note:**

> It might seem a bit weird to substitute Caesar’s “dictator for life” status for a temporary rank like commodore, but I think it works. (I _hope_ it works!) I had a bit of a laugh making Antony captain of marines, because in various screen versions of the Age of Sail, marines are often the reason we can’t have nice things. And hey, it’s not like he’s great shakes at naval warfare, AMIRITE? So into the Jollies he went! 
> 
> “Glorious victory or Westminster Abbey” stolen, with apologies, from Horatio Nelson. The quote is alternatively recorded as “Victory or Westminster Abbey” or “Westminster Abbey and glorious victory”, but the gist is the same. Same goes for the devil > Frenchman switch. (lolol I’m so witty) Generally, I tried to avoid a Caesar=Nelson parallel, because to be quite frank, I like Nelson, and I don’t like Caesar. Caesar’s more of a Napoleon, anyway. I also borrowed a few expressions from Patrick O’Brian books and the Hornblower TV series, which are meant as hômages. If you can spot them, you get a prize. Maybe.
> 
> I read something in Brian Lavery’s _Nelson’s Navy_ where he mentions that first lieutenants weren’t usually watchkeepers, but...er... OH LOOK OVER THERE, THERE’S A BADGER WITH A GUN, DO YOU SEE?  
>  Also, despite what Cassius may say, although a commodore might command a squadron, the individual captains were still masters of their own ships. We’ll just assume Cassius is being histrionic.


End file.
